


A Good Man

by spacehopper



Category: Deus Ex (Video Games)
Genre: All: Arranged marriage to prevent extradition or incarceration, M/M, Marriage of Convenience, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-10-04 00:29:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,906
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20462045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: Miller was a good man. And that was all this was.





	A Good Man

**Author's Note:**

  * For [linndechir](https://archiveofourown.org/users/linndechir/gifts).

Miller was a good man. And that was all this was.

In the background, the other Eliza read the news with coded emotion, regret and fear and hate all calculated down to the last decimal place. Mac’s eyes flicked between the screen and the papers on the table; he knew why they were doing this. And there was no judgment in his eyes when he signed his name under Chang’s. Just pity. For Adam, and even more for Jim.

That pity clung to Adam as he signed the marriage papers, looking into Jim’s, into Miller’s smiling face. Not many like him, these days. So Adam pulled back internally, retreating into what distance they had left, even if he couldn’t pull away physically. Even when he didn’t want to, their hands brushing, shining augs and weathered skin one over the other, and Miller brought his other hand to Adam’s cheek, drawing him in, thumb caressing the crease of his jaw as Adam opened his mouth for the kiss.

Make it look convincing. Make it look real. The tongue brushing over his was real enough. The small noise Miller made. The city official, clearing her throat. Newlyweds, a bit too enthusiastic. It was what they wanted her to think. What they wanted everyone to think. And it was why the warmth in Miller’s eyes when he pulled away felt like hot lead to the heart. 

But then, he didn’t really have a heart, did he? Not anymore.

* * *

They slipped into a routine. Adam got up early, showered first, started breakfast. Left the coffee to Miller, who hated how he made it, saying it always tasted burnt. He finished getting ready, all but his coat, before padding back into the kitchen, the sound muffled by the rudder tread of his boots. It was almost comfortable. Was comfortable, in a way that was worse than the initial awkwardness, because sometimes Adam forgot. That it was all a sham, an obligation. Bound by duty and necessity. Seeing Miller leaning against the counter, staring blankly across the room, not yet aware of Adam’s presence, he almost asked. Would Miller have done it, if Adam hadn’t saved his life? The words sparked and died on his tongue when Miller smiled, holding out a cup of coffee. It didn’t matter now, did it? Adam took the coffee, took a sip, letting the sweet liquid coat his throat. Stopping up any regrets he might dare to voice. 

They were making it work. He shouldn’t make it worse than it already was.

* * *

“I thought it’d get better.” 

Miller sunk back into the couch with a sigh. Shoulders tight with disappointment, a feeling Adam wished weren’t all too familiar. Wished he could bury under heavy cynicism, instead of cradling the fragile remnants of hope in his hands. He considered a number of answers, discarded each for being too cruel, too bitter. Finally, he settled on, “Not a lot getting better, these days.”

“I know.” 

Miller’s hands clenched, dragging the fabric of his pants taut. Adam wanted to touch them, to brush his fingers over them, to somehow ease that tension. As if electro-active polymers encased in carbon fiber could do that, could do anything but remind him of the same shit that brought more wrinkles to his face everyday. 

Miller looked at Adam, lips twitching into a bitter smile. “But still, I thought—” Whatever it was died on his lips, his expression softening as he studied Adam, then reached out. Their fingers colliding as his hand settled on Adam’s, sliding over metal like it was flesh. “I guess it’s not all bad.” He seemed surprised by his own actions, but he didn’t take it back. “You’re a good man.” 

Adam tried not to think about what it might mean. Hope was so easily crushed. 

But still, he tightened his grip.

* * *

Alcohol was the breaking point. They fought. Jim calling him reckless. Adam flinging it back in his face. 

“Only one of us is augmented,” Adam snapped, itching to run his hands over Jim’s chest, to check for the abrasions he knew were there, for the cracked ribs and deeper cuts he might still be hiding. “Unless you had a Sentinel put in while I wasn’t looking? Not a good choice these days.”

Jim saw right through him, of course. Stepped up to Adam, glared right back. That was the problem, wasn’t it? They knew each other too well, knew how they avoided things, what lurked underneath. “Doesn’t mean you’re immortal.” The glare softened, an expression Adam didn’t want to name crossed his face. His hand lifted, reaching out as he took another unsteady step towards him. “I can’t lose you.” 

“You can’t fight progress.” He grabbed his coat before Jim could respond, heading into the rain soaked night. No bars left that’d serve him now, at least not around here. But there were other ways, vents that lead to cellars where he’d long ago compromised the security systems. The old owners of the bar had been augs; they were long gone. But Adam liked to think they’d appreciate him taking this small thing from those who’d replaced them. Who’d profited off their pain. 

One beer lead to another, but in Prague the beer flowed like water. No danger of running out, not even with as much as he needed to drink, to dull the accusations and the fear, so that when he staggered back into the night, everything was muffled and smooth. Almost enough to pretend it was a year ago, that he was going back to his empty flat, collapsing onto the black sheets only to be woken by Jim’s grumpy scolding in the morning. 

But it wasn’t a year ago. And when Adam stumbled through the door, the lights were on, illuminating Jim, slumped on the couch, nursing a beer of his own. 

I can’t lose you, he’d said. As an agent, that was all he meant. All he could mean. But without the clarity sobriety provided, the omission rang louder than anything that’d come before. The beers Jim had drank stood in an accusing line on the counter. Stupid. They were both so stupid. 

“Fuck, Adam.” Jim stood, crossing the room with unsteady steps, hand landing on his shoulder before Adam could think to pull away. “I was worried. Fuck.”

It was a decision that wasn’t a decision at all, and one long overdue, as Adam pressed their lips together, drinking in the way Jim stiffened, the way he relaxed even as his hand tightened. Holding Adam there, binding them together more than the marriage documents ever had. He didn’t let go, not until they’d stumbled to their room, and he was pulling off Adam’s clothes. Peeling back the layers he was suddenly desperate to discard.

In the morning, they’d both regret it. But for now, he’d take what he could get.

* * *

They didn’t speak about that night the next day, or week, or month. It sat there between them, held fast by the pressure of each new terrorist attack, the missions gone awry, the shit the police were giving Adam, worse every day. Discarded, but not forgotten, through each shouted argument, the fear coating both their words. Through the affection as well. Miller still made Adam coffee. And Adam found himself setting gears carefully into place, wondering if Miller would have any use for a watch. A bit old fashioned, but then in many ways, Miller was an old fashioned guy. 

Through it all, they didn’t stop sharing a bed. Too important to forget, this sham they had to uphold. A sham he wanted to uphold. Always starting on different sides, until the weight of all their problems distorted the distance, pulling them together, drawing what comfort they could until the sun rose again. 

And if they sometimes lingered there, a warm arm slung over a scarred and pitted chest, well. They never spoke about that, either.

* * *

The other Eliza’s voice rang with algorithmically calculated disappointment and fear. A surprise victory for augmentation advocates, one Adam should be happy about, was happy about, except for the way his chest tightened when he looked at Miller sitting next to him, intent on her every word.

Until he turned to Adam, face turning stubborn, cut through with an emotion Adam was finding all too familiar these days. “This is stupid.” 

“Anything in particular you had in mind?” The questions came easily to his lips, a shield as much as the Titan, though far less effective, because then Miller grabbed his hand, weaving their fingers together, pale flesh and gleaming metal.

“You. Me. Us. Fuck, Adam. Is there an us? Because I was feeling like there was, but then you froze me out.” 

Cold. Heartless. It was what the news showed, what dripped from Eliza’s every word. And it wasn’t what Jim meant. Not augs, frozen and inhuman. But Adam, hand warm in Miller’s. He tried to look anywhere but Miller. Found that he couldn’t. “You’ve done enough for me.”

“Is that what this is? Guilt?”

Adam didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer, not the way Miller wanted. Not the way he should. 

“I—” Miller’s hand tightened around his, and it hurt. “You know what? You’re not the only one who should feel guilty. You think I did this as some sort of noble self-sacrifice?”

More questions he could only answer with silence, eyes darting the window, to the flames igniting outside.

“Not much of a sacrifice, when I already couldn’t stop thinking about you. Even before London.” And he continued, Adam no longer able to look away. “You were infuriating. Still are. But you, damn. I’m not good at this.” His hands were sweaty, slipping but holding so tight. “But you’re good, Adam. Despite all this shit, everything you’ve gone through. You care. Not many people like that these days. So I watched you, and the watching changed. And then in London—”

“Miller,” Adam said. “Jim.” Stop. Keep going. 

Jim’s hand went to the corner of his eye, lingering there, tracing the edge of the eye shields he hadn’t bothered to close around Jim, not even before the marriage. Not since London. 

“I’m not quite sure when I fell in love with you,” Jim said. And he sounded happy. Fond. And hopeful, even as outside the first stirrings of protests against the repeal grew. “I was just thinking you might feel the same.”

“The laws are changing,” Adam said, an objection, and an obligation. Even with this battle won, they were both too hardened to think it’d be the last.

“I know,” Jim said. 

And Adam knew he meant all of it, not just the laws, but everything else between them, the fights and the trust that had long ago replaced any suspicion.

It was another for Adam to say it, the make that move he’d wanted to make for so long it ground against the force of habit to get the words out. 

“But we don’t have to. Change, that is.” 

When Jim smiled, it was Adam who leaned in, crossing the barbed and tangled barrier they’d built between themselves, lips hot and frantic. The protests, the news, all of it drowned out by the press of Jim’s tongue against his, the click when their teeth bumped, the knowledge this was real. In all the world, that this one thing wasn’t a lie. 

Jim was a good man. And that was all there needed to be.


End file.
